Salvation
by neonchica
Summary: It helped. It made the days easier to get through. But when Dean get’s hurt because of Sam’s secret, Sam finally has to face the repercussions.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: It helped. It made the days easier to get through. But when Dean get's hurt because of Sam's secret, Sam finally has to face the repercussions._

**Ido not own Dean or Sam. I do not own Supernatural. But the rest is all the property of my subconscious. **

_Hi guys! Here's one more that just begged to be written. Hope you enjoy! And don't forget to respond. Reviews make me happy!_

Sam rolled out of bed long before sunlight began shining through the window and, after making sure Dean was still fast asleep, snuck into the bathroom, taking his toiletry bag with him. He reached unconsciously into the shower stall and turned the water on, not caring what the temperature was. This was the normal routine, and he wouldn't be getting into the shower any time soon. Shaky hands dug through the bag until he unearthed the consecrated bottle, the contents innocuously hidden behind a 'Tylenol' label and tossed out several of the white pills into his hand. Immunity had him up to five of the sacred tablets every four hours, and he chased them with a glassful of water out of habit, but not necessity. He ate them like candy these days, and he could easily swallow them dry if there was no water to be had. Even risking the bitterness on his cottony tongue was better than the alternative, so Sam always made sure he downed the capsules on time. His body made sure of it.

He couldn't remember the exact day that he'd pulled his first con to stock up on the precious salvation, but he remembered the day he realized how precious the pills were to him in the first place. And he remembered what had led to his finding out. He and Dean were on what they considered to be a routine hunt; a banshee was terrorizing men in a small town in North Dakota, and he and Dean had stopped on their way to a larger job. Their intention had been to be in and out in less than an evening's time. But the banshee had a different idea entirely. She had put up a fight with every last ounce of strength she had, and Sam had born the brunt of her attacks. By the time she sucked in her last breath Sam was writhing on the floor in agony, his hip shattered in two places. A few well placed pins and a bottle of prescription Codeine later, and he and Dean were back on the road, primarily because they couldn't afford to pay the hospital bills. They'd had to hightail it out of the town before their debts caught up with them.

At first, Sam just took the drugs for the excruciating pain he found himself in during any single moments lucidity. The Impala was as comfortable as any car for the physically healthy, but is wasn't built to accommodate his need for a full prone position. He'd tried the passenger seat and the back seat, tried every position possible in both seats, but it was impossible to get comfortable without some help from his little white friends. They drove for several days before Dean finally pulled the car off at a little roadside motel and announced they would take a few days to recuperate. But the damage had already been done. Sam had discovered an additional perk to his painkillers. They didn't just ease the physical pain; they eased the emotional pain as well.

That was back in November. It was July now, and his hip had long ago healed. But the emotional anguish that had haunted him since Jess' death still lingered over him, refusing to be subdued. But the pills helped. They made him forget. They fought the pain. So he'd continued to take them. Town after town he found himself sneaking away from Dean just long enough to find some gullible doctor to believe his contrived story of losing his prescription. They took pity on him, every last one of them, and so Sam continued to fill prescriptions for Codeine. He back-stocked them, tossing the obtrusive pharmacy bottles and replacing those with unquestionable's. Old bottles for Vitamin C pills, Fiber pills, Multi-vitamins, they all contained Sam's precious supply, and Dean would never know because he didn't believe in all that crap. He believed the body created its own supplies of everything, and pills just weren't required to supplement. He never looked in the bottle's, and because he never suspected, Sam was now addicted. Not that Sam would admit to any of that.

He stayed in the bathroom for several minutes, collapsed on top of the closed toilet seat until the shaking subsided and nausea disappeared. Then, he reached back into the shower and shut off the water. He returned to the bed, hoping to get at least another hours worth of sleep before Dean woke up ready to get back on the road. Sam looked over at Dean's sleeping form and let out a sigh of relief. Dean didn't suspect a thing.

As Sam had expected, Dean woke with the first rays of the sun, getting himself showered and dressed before waking Sam to do the same. "Rise and shine sleeping beauty," he crowed in an all too perky voice. Sam groaned as Dean pulled the covers down, shaking his shoulder for added measure. "Dude, come on. Get up. Get dressed. We need to be on the road early."

Sam climbed groggily out of the bed and made a beeline to the bathroom, this time adjusting the water temperature in the shower to his liking and climbing in. His skin itched, and the hot water beating down on him made everything feel so much better. Closing his eyes, he used both hands to steady himself against the tiled wall of the shower and remained that way for the good part of ten minutes, relishing the soothing feel of the waterfall.

Dean's voice interrupted his reverie, and Sam snapped to attention when he heard the pounding on the bathroom door. "Dammit Sam, don't be taking all day in there! Come on, lets get a move on!"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming." He rolled his eyes, but moved into action, finishing the remaining components of his shower in record time. Grabbing the breakfast sandwich Dean had picked up for him, Sam stuffed it in his mouth in four bites and chased his anxious brother out the door. They had two days to make it to their next destination before another sacrifice would take place under the full moon, and Dean was determined to cross the thousand or so miles with time to spare.

They were barely back on the road when Sam's head lulled back, his mouth dropped open, and hushed snores emitted from his nose and throat. Dean glanced over at his little brother, unsure if he should be relieved or worried that Sam had once again fallen into a routine that he'd mastered in the last several months. The boy spent so much of his time asleep these days.

Dean had noticed a change in Sam, but he honestly believed the changes were for the better. Sure, he slept more, and he seemed slightly less attentive to the tiny details of life, and he often complained of blurry vision; but Dean had no intention of getting involved. A sleepy Sam was certainly better than a mopey one. And he wasn't about to complain about Sam's lack of pointing out every freaking landmark in every freaking city. And the blurry vision meant he got more time behind to wheel of the precious Impala without Sam whining that he never got to drive. So for Dean, the changes were welcome. But he still couldn't shake the feeling that there was some underlying cause to all the changes. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that everything was fine, his gut told him differently. He just didn't feel like dealing with it. Dealing equated concern, and concern meant chick-flick moments. _No thank you._

"Dean, we gotta stop, man. I gotta pee." Sam's voice rose over the boom of Dean's music.

Whipping his head around, Dean regarded his brother with surprise. "When did you decide to rejoin the land of the living?"

Sam rolled his eyes, irritated. "Just stop at the next gas station, will ya?" He bounced his foot nervously against the floorboards and shoved his hands beneath his legs, trying to stop their trembling, or at the very least, hide it from his brother. He barely gave the car time to stop before bounding from the vehicle, backpack slung over his shoulder.

The bathroom was built into the side of the gas station, and required a key, which Sam didn't have. Desperation overcame him, and he found himself frantically rattling the locked doorknob and pounding insistently on the barrier taunting him as sweat began to pour down his face. Failure to wake earlier had cost him a precious hour, and the effects of withdrawal were beginning to take their toll.

"Looking for this?" Sam's head snapped up and he spun around. Dean stood holding the key to the door triumphantly, an ear to ear grin spread across his face. Sam lashed out, grabbing at the oversized key chain and stumbling a little as he closed his hand around it. He didn't even spare a thank you before sliding the key into the lock and letting himself into the filthy bathroom hidden behind the solid door. A stunned Dean remained outside, unsure what to make of the action.

Sam barely noticed the pee on the seat of the unisex bathroom. He didn't care that the urinal was clogged by a wad of some nasty looking green thing. And the cockroaches that dared to scurry across his path barely registered in his fogged brain. He had something far more important on his brain, and the only thing standing in his way was a vinyl backpack and a little plastic bottle. Those, and hands that were shaking so violently now that he could barely get a handle on the zipper.

"Hey, Sam! You OK in there?" Dean's voice came clearly through the door, concern obvious in his tone, but Sam didn't hear him. And he didn't react as Dean pounded on the door. "Sam! Open this door! What the hell is wrong with you?"

The zipper finally gave, and Sam's hand plunged into the depths of the bag, desperately searching for the 'Tylenol' bottle. His fingers finally found it and he pulled it out triumphantly, the urge to kiss the blessed bottle trumped only by his serious need to get inside. As he pushed on the lid, spinning it off, he cursed his decision to put the pills in something with a childproof lock. It meant that much more time before he found salvation. But he had experience with the lock, and Sam still had the five little pills in his hand within seconds. He tossed them down his throat, bypassing even the thought of water, and then fell against the wall of the bathroom.

Dean's pounding became more insistent as Sam's senses began to return, and when the shaking had disappeared and his heart was beating more steadily he finally pushed off from the wall. After splashing some water on his face Sam finally grasped the doorknob, yanking it open and glaring at Dean. "Dude, give a guy some privacy, will you?" He stormed off toward the car without a backward glance at his confused brother.

Racing after Sam, Dean caught his arm and spun him around. "What the hell's wrong with you? You tore into that bathroom like you were running from the apocalypse."

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam dead panned, squirming from the firm grasp and heading back to the car. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, well you sure didn't look fine. What's going on with you?"

Turning on his heel, Sam faced his brother, teeth clenched angrily. "Look do we really need to get into this right now? Do you _really _need to hear about my intestinal problems? Because I'd rather not talk about it, if-you-don't-mind."

Dean backed off, as Sam had expected he would, and grew silent. He stalked to his own side of the car and slid in, inserting the key into the ignition before he even dared to breathe. Staring straight ahead, he gunned the engine and tore out of the parking lot, rocking Sam's unbelted body toward the dashboard. "Dammit Dean, slow it down. I have a headache as it is."

He stayed silent, but complied with Sam's request for him to slow down. The music was turned up to a painful level and Dean occupied himself entirely with the road ahead and his own off-key renditions of the music blaring into the car.

Sam rolled down the window, welcoming the cool breeze against his face and the moderate escape from the bass beat pounding painfully against his skull. His thoughts went to his their last stop, and how close he'd come to Dean bursting through the locked door and finding him with the pills. _Why is Dean so obnoxious. I just need a little privacy. What the hell's his problem? Why is he constantly dogging me?_ _He has no right! I guess I could just tell him; I mean, it's not like there isn't a reason for taking the medication. I need it. It gets me through the day. He'd understand; wouldn't he?_ But deep inside Sam knew Dean wouldn't understand; knew he wouldn't just accept the fact that Sam was popping pills to make it from daybreak to nightfall. And if he really dug deep, he could admit that he knew why Dean wouldn't understand. But digging that deep meant admitting things about himself that he just wasn't ready to face. So he contented himself with what was on the surface. Sam was doing what was necessary to get by, and Dean was just being annoying.


	2. Chapter 2

**I have no claim to Dean or Sam or Supernatural itself, but the story within is all mine. **

_Hi guys! I'm so glad you're enjoying this one, too! Thanks so much for the reviews. It makes the writing all worthwhile. I crave them, eagerly reading every one that comes in. Please keep it up! Enjoy..._

As Dean had hoped, the black Impala rolled into their destination mid-afternoon with plenty of time to prepare for the evening's hunt. He parked the car in the gravel parking lot outside of a diner and nudged Sam awake with a not so gentle punch to the arm.

Startled out of his slumber, Sam shot daggers at Dean. "Dude, what the hell was that for?" he demanded.

"We're here," was all Dean was willing to provide as he stalked from the car and into the diner. "You wanna eat, you better get your scrawny ass in here."

They hadn't said much to each other during the rest of the drive to the town. With the exception of Sam's periodic insistence for pit stop's Dean didn't think they would have spoken at all. Sam had spent most of the ride fast asleep, and the rest of it with an irritable scowl on his face, his arms crossed as he withdrew into himself. And their layover at the motel last night had been nothing if not awkward. For some reason Dean couldn't establish, Sam had clammed up completely. _This has got to be more than a little intestinal problem_, Dean had determined as he lay awake late into the night, watching Sam's chest rise and fall in an irregular pattern. _Something else is wrong with him; I just don't know what._

Even the little bit of sleep he got that night was light. He'd barely allowed himself that small amount, and the deep, REM sleep never came. He'd heard Sam rise early the next morning, sneaking about the room like a thief. Dean had kept his eyes closed, not wanting Sam to know he was awake, but he kept his ears wide open. The shower had started in a matter of seconds after Sam had retreated into the bathroom, and Dean could no longer hear what was happening. But he couldn't contain his surprise when Sam emerged less than ten minutes earlier, still dressed and completely dry. _So why the water, Sammy?_ Dean had wondered. _What didn't you want me to hear?_

Sam looked over at Dean as he crawled back into bed, and Dean had quickly shut what little of his eyes were open, but apparently he wasn't quick enough. Sam had noticed him watching, and he wasn't happy. "I'm just not feeling well," Sam snapped, defending himself

before Dean could say a word.

The right eyebrow was raised on Dean's face, but he still had said nothing. What was there to say? By now he knew it was beyond a factor of whether or not Sam was feeling well, but until he had more information or Sam decided to share, Dean wasn't prepared to confront him. _God Sammy, what the hell is going on with you? Talk to me. Please!_

"Are you alright now?" Dean finally chose to ask, propping himself on one elbow so he could get a better look at his little brother.

"I'm fine, Dean. Get off my back!" Sam was already curled up under the covers, but he made the effort to roll over and glare at his brother before pulling the covers back over his head.

Unable to sleep any longer, Dean had stormed into the bathroom for a shower and dragged Sam out the door soon after, much to Sam's annoyance. If Sam was going to be such a pain in the ass he wasn't going to make anything easy for him.

Now Sam dragged himself lethargically into the diner, immediately making tracks to the bathroom as Dean slid into a booth. _And he's off again, _Dean thought, shaking his head sadly. He studied Sam closely as he returned, noticing that his skin had become just a little bit less pale in the course of his time in the bathroom. He noticed that the sweat dripping off his forehead was now gone. The shakiness in his hands, that Sam tried so hard to keep hidden, was just a little bit better now. But Sam still didn't look OK. He still had dark circles lining his eyes, an indication that the exorbitant amount of sleep he was getting still wasn't doing its job. Sam still dug nails into his skin with an unconscious desperation to suppress whatever was causing him to itch. And he still rubbed his fingers in frantic circles on his temples, trying to rid himself of the headache that seemed a permanent torment pounding against his skull. Sam had taken great pains to hide these symptoms from Dean, but lately he'd gotten clumsy. He'd allowed Dean to catch a glimpse of the torture that plagued him. And he had yet to realize it.

"Did you order yet?" Sam asked, sliding into the booth. Dean found himself feeling relief at the little bit of normality in Sam's question and he immediately repressed an urge to ask, once again, if he was OK. It wasn't worth the argument that would undoubtedly ensue.

Dean shook his head. "I was waiting for you to get back.

"I'm not really all that hungry," Sam admitted, pushing the menu out of his way. "I just want something to drink."

"Sam, you haven't eaten all day. We've got a big job tonight. You need to eat." He'd tried to say it in the nicest way possible, emoting concern if anything, but Sam still took it as an order.

"I said I'm not hungry!" Sam snapped, testiness not only in his voice but his actions as well.

Dean backed off again, as he'd done so often lately. "Alright alright. Just get something to drink. Fine." He shrugged, suddenly finding the napkin wrapped silverware very interesting. _I've never been scared of you, Sammy. But you're not you anymore. And I don't know what to do with the new you. I don't know how to talk to you. I don't know how to help you._

The waitress arrived at their table, her cheeriness invading the tension in the air, and Dean looked up. As cute as she was, he wasn't even in the mood to flirt. He ordered, a burger and fries with an extra side of onion rings - in case Sam decided he was hungry, and the waitress skipped off to put in the order.

Dean tried again, unwilling to allow Sam to frighten him. "So we gotta talk about what we'll be fighting tonight," he announced with more confidence than he felt.

"Then talk," Sam replied flatly.

That was another thing. Lately, Dean had found himself doing all the research on their cases, which would have been alright except for the fact that Sam was so much better at sussing out typically missed details. Dean didn't have the eye for that; didn't have the mind for it.

He sighed. "Alright. So we're fighting a warlock tonight. He get's the majority of his power on the full moon - like tonight - and apparently he needs to drink the blood of a virgin on the full moon in order to keep his strength." Dean paused, humor playing on his lips as he regarded Sam. He'd barely spoken two sentences and Sam's attention was already off in space. He needed something to reel him back in. "On second thought, Sam, maybe you shouldn't come with me. I mean...if he's going after virgins..."

Sam didn't laugh. And much to Dean's surprise and disappointment, Sam didn't even react to the joke. "SAM!"

He finally refocused his attention on Dean, blinking from disorientation. "Yeah."

"Dude, what's going on with you, man. You've been a space cadet for weeks now."

Sam rolled his eyes and picked up his fork, absently stabbing at some imaginary something on the clean table. "You're overreacting, Dean. I'm fine. I've just been a little distracted lately."

"Well un-distract yourself," Dean ordered, his own irritation beginning to match that of his little brother's. "Did you even hear a word I was saying?"

Sam sighed, finally noticing Dean's intensity. He focused on the older hunter. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

Dean reiterated what he'd said before and then continued as their food arrived. During the conversation, Dean had gradually pushed the onion rings towards Sam, grinning inwardly when his brother took the bait and began stuffing his mouth with the greasy sustenance. "So do you think you're gonna be ready for this thing?" he'd asked, once he'd given the rest of the information.

"Of course," Sam assured Dean. "When are we going?"

"Just as soon as you finish those onion rings," Dean announced, smirking as Sam looked in surprise at the red plastic basket he'd just about emptied. He slapped a few bills on the table to cover the food and rose from the table, heading for the door with Sam following behind him, the remaining rings stuffed unceremoniously into his mouth.

The ride to the Warlock's lair just outside of town was filled with significantly less tension filled silence than they'd endured in the previous forty eight hours, and Dean almost forgot how worried he'd been about his little brother. If only he hadn't forgotten.

xxxxxxxx

The girl was already tied to the rotating table when the brother's arrived, peeking through the window to see what they were up against. In the far corner of the room they could see the Warlock, weapons gleaming against the moonlight, preparing for his sacrifice that could only take place when the moon was in its highest position in the sky. They still had another hour before the ritual would take place, but the poor girl looked like she might die from fright long before the sacrifice ever took place.

"We've gotta get in there," Dean whispered, backing away from the window and then making fast tracks to the car. "He's only gonna get stronger the longer we wait."

Sam nodded, following Dean to the car, suddenly more alert and coherent than he'd been in weeks. They collected their weapons, discarding what they would need back into the trunk, and headed back to the decrepit old mansion.

Dean didn't mess around. Ordinarily he would have insisted they sneak into the house and take the beast by surprise, but for now his thoughts went to the girl. He wanted to get out of harms way as quickly as possible; and that meant blasting the door in with a shot of rocksalt. Dean fired once, twice, and then shoved through what remained of the door with his sturdy shoulder, coming face to face with the snarling Warlock.

"Sam, get the girl!" Dean ordered, facing off with his prey. He aimed the gun steadily, daring the Warlock to take a step, to make a move. From the corner of his eye he watched as Sam ran into the next room, and then he disappeared from sight, but the frightened sobs of the teenage girl intensified and he could only imagine that Sam now had her safely in his arms.

Returning to the more pressing matter, Dean eyed the furious creature, firing the gun just before a fireball shot from its hand, and he ducked, just barely missing being hit. "Sam! Hurry up! Get in here!"

The rocksalt only managed to subdue the Warlock, not kill it, and he was soon staggering forward again, laughing bitterly at Dean's meager attempts to stop him. Dean discarded the useless weapon and reached beneath his coat for something different. He emerged triumphantly with a second gun, this one loaded with real bullets, but before he could raise the gun he felt himself lifted bodily into the air by some unseen force and thrown across the room into a shelf loaded with glass urns filled with fermenting body parts. They shattered upon impact and rained down on Dean as he slumped to the floor, the contents of the urns piling on top of him.

The Warlock's powers were increasing, and he'd managed to throw Dean by means of telekinesis. Now, the beast stalked toward Dean as he struggled to unearth himself from the hearts and livers that covered him. Slashes of red were tattooed on bare skin, and shards of glass still stuck out from the deeper wounds. A wild roar of anguish burst from deep within its lungs as he stood over Dean, its mind willing him to rise to his feet and then higher. Looking down, he saw he was floating several feet above the ground and he flailed his legs wildly, trying to grasp a foothold that was nowhere close to him. "Sammmeeeee!" He reached back into his coat as he screamed for his brother, frantically searching for something, anything, that he could use against his attacker, but there was nothing. Knives would never work, and he could see the precious gun lying more than fifteen feet from his floating body.

Sam finally appeared in the doorway, gun raised and pointed directly at the Warlock's heart, and Dean found the time to sneer at the unsuspecting creature amidst his frenzied attempt to free himself from the grasps of the invisible hands. _My brother is sooo gonna kill you._

But the shot didn't happen, and Dean watched first in anger and then horror as Sam slumped against the doorframe, dropping the gun as his hands went limp. His eyes rolled back into his head before he dropped to the floor, body shaking spastically. Foamy drool rolled from his mouth and it was soon tinged red as blood mixed with it. As he lay convulsing on the floor, Dean glared at the Warlock. "What the hell did you do to my brother?" he demanded, still determined to free himself so he could get to Sam.

The Warlock leered derisively at the older hunter. "I did nothing to your brother!" he boomed, his voice echoing throughout the house. "But you..." At that, he flung Dean across the room again, this time slamming him through the railing of the stairs. Dean hit the sidewall with a deafening thunk before he tumbled down the entire flight of stairs, landing in a battered lump at the bottom. He lay still, willing the Warlock to believe him dead. And it worked.

With a deep, throaty chuckle, the Warlock left Dean and began to focus his efforts on the younger Winchester. Sam had stopped convulsing by now, but Dean could see his chest rising and falling, struggling to breathe. He was still alive, and even unconscious that meant he was a danger.

Dean was numb to the pain, his thoughts only on rescuing Sam, and he pulled himself with one good arm across the floor. He only had two feet, two precious and yet all too far away feet to reach the gun he'd dropped earlier. It seemed to take forever to drag his battered body that small distance and then he grabbed the gun, aiming through blurred vision at the hunched form of the Warlock. He fired. The bullet tore through the creature's shoulder and it screamed, the volume shaking the walls of the house and piercing Dean's eardrums. He fired again, this time making contact with the intended target, and as the bullet tore through its heart the Warlock faltered and then collapsed. Dead.

He tried to rise. Tried to pull himself to where Sam lay unconscious on the ground, just inches from the fallen beast. But Dean was hurt more than he would ever admit to himself, and he didn't get more than six inches before his arm, the one thing causing any movement to his beaten self, gave way and he fell against the marble floor. He tasted the coppery bitterness of blood on his tongue as darkness closed in on him.


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Dean, Sam, or any Supernatural related material. But the story contained herein is mine...and mine alone.**

_Hi guys! I'm so glad you're loving this. I'm loving it too! Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling all over when you write. Keep it up...please! Enjoy..._

"Dammit Sam, turn that damn alarm off!" Dean ordered, not noticing how slurred his words had sounded. The incessant beeping resounded through Dean's head, tormenting his slumber, and he reached under his head grabbing for the pillow under his head as he debated whether to bury his ears with it or throw it at his brother for not turning off the alarm clock. He finally made the decision to throw the pillow, but as he yanked it from beneath his head he was consumed with shooting pains tearing through his entire body and his eyes shot wide open. _What the hell!_

The beeping sound grew faster, and he realized it wasn't an alarm clock at all. It was a heart monitor. He was in the hospital. As Dean tried to sit up, losing the battle to the intense vertigo that suddenly plagued him, everything that had happened with the Warlock replayed itself in his mind. Immediately a new thought formed and he whipped his head around the room. "Sam!"

"Over here," came the mumbled reply, but Sam never arrived in Dean's line of sight, and that made him nervous.

"Sammy...you OK?" Anxiety entered Dean's tone and he struggled to fend off the nausea that accompanied his frantic motions.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "And ith Tham."

Finally gaining control over the spinning room, Dean managed to pull himself to a full sit, wincing as the move tugged at stitches he had yet to count. He couldn't help a laugh as he mocked his little brother. "Tham? You sure you don't mean Sam?" He could see him now, and Dean almost regretted making the joke. Almost.

The boy sat on the other bed in the room, fully dressed, but still wearing the standard hospital ID bracelet. He looked utterly dejected. His head, hair uncombed, lay heavily within his hands. And he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. His eyes were red and puffy, almost dominating over the dark circles, but he'd successfully wiped away any indication of actual tears long before Dean woke up.

He didn't look up as he replied, not even a hint of humor in his voice. "Thath what I thaid, Dean. Tham."

Dean skipped over the numerous insults that came to mind, instinct telling him this wasn't the time. Something was seriously wrong with his little brother, and dry humor wasn't the cure. By now he'd found the button to raise the head of the bed, and he brought it up to meet his back, collapsing his screaming body against it as he eyed his brother with concern. "What happened to you back there?"

Shoulders hugged Sam's neck and then immediately dropped. "I guess that Warlock just got the better of me," he answered, the lie rolling off his tongue easily. The past months had done for him what years of hunting never could. He was now a master liar.

Except Dean knew Sam better than anyone ever had, and even Sam couldn't pass off every lie to his astute brother. Dean didn't buy it. The combination of what the Warlock had said to him and the fact that Sam refused to make eye contact sent up a red flag. "Try me again," Dean commanded sternly. "And this time tell me the truth. What happened to you? And why do you sound like you have a mouthful of cotton?"

Seconds passed, turning into a full minute plus before Sam spoke. Dean strained towards Sam, trying to make out his brother's muffled words. "The doctor's say I had a seizure," Sam admitted. "I guess I bit my tongue." He raised his head just enough to show Dean the six stitches across the center of his now swollen tongue. But he still refused to look his brother in the eye.

He was still lying. The little shit was keeping something vital from his admission, and Dean was determined to find out. But for now, he settled on the one word embedded in Sam's admission that raised concern. He'd glossed over it so fast that Dean barely heard it at first. But then he rewound the sentence and heard it again. _Seizure. Sam had a seizure._ "Whoa, back up there Trigger. You had a seizure? That's what happened during the fight?"

One nod. One barely noticeable nod, confirmed it. "Two, actually," he added, whispering the words as though it would make it less real. "There was another one once we got to the ER."

"Well do they have any idea why?"

Sam shrugged again, turning his head from Dean entirely. His fingers played absently with the white sheets covering the hospital bed and he bounced his knee in hyper-speed. "It was nothing," he insisted by means of omission. "Forget about me. How are you?"

Dean ignored the question, still focused on his baby brother. "Sam. What did the doctor say?"

He continued to fidget, now rising from the bed and studying any and all objects above Dean's head. The TV, black screen staring at him ominously, hypnotically. The monitors, flashing Dean's vitals for the world to see. Fluorescent Lights flickering from age. Ceiling Tiles, looking as though they'd been made in a Swiss cheese factory. They were all more welcoming than his brother right now. He didn't want to talk. And that meant avoiding Dean at all costs. "I, uh...I think I'm gonna go find your doctor," Sam finally said, sprinting anxiously from the room before Dean could protest.

Within minutes a new face appeared in the doorway, but Sam didn't return. She was plain, Dean noticed the minute the thirty something female knocked on his door, and his immediate thought went to the fact that he couldn't bring himself to flirt with her. It wasn't that she was ugly; because she wasn't. But she wasn't pretty either. There was just nothing special to her at all. And so he was forced to actually listen to her montage as Dr. Smith – _how appropriate_, he'd thought – covered his injuries. He had a concussion – _of course, I could have told you that _– three cracked ribs and a sprained knee. And he'd suffered some internal bleeding. The broken glass had sliced several gashes into his face, neck, and hands, and several had required stitches. There was also a hairline fracture on his right arm, but miraculously, he'd suffered no broken bones, and barring any complications he would be released later that day providing he to promised to take it easy.

Dean groaned as the doctor left, immediately wondering how bad the cuts were. Most importantly, how bad his face looked. With his good hand, he pulled back the covers and painfully levered himself to the edge of the bed, peeling the electrodes and needles from his skin as he went. He may have escaped broken bones, but that didn't mean his body didn't feel broken. The doctor had left a set of crutches by his bed, but he only took one. His arm hurt too bad to hold onto the other one, and the fact that the arm was strung up in a sling didn't help matters. He gingerly raised himself up, never fully reaching vertical, but coming pretty darn close as he leaned heavily on the crutches. He swayed for a second, immediately missing Sam's annoying mother hen issues when he realized he wasn't there. _Where the hell is that little bastard? _

It took him several minutes to pick his way to the adjoining bathroom, pausing every few steps to reclaim his breath and ease the fiery pain that screamed at him from every inch of his body, but Dean finally made it, planting himself in front of the mirror. The broken glass had done a number on his face, and Dean recoiled at the reflected image in front of him, wondering how much of it would remain when the skin knitted back together. The skin was a patchwork of reds and blues, yellows and blacks and jagged lines moving in every direction, looking more like a Picasso than the face that could have won major modeling jobs if he'd taken a different life path. He hoped the sharp blackness of the multitude of stitches railroading across his face and neck actually made the image worse, but only time would tell. For all he knew, he could end up a living version of Frankenstein's monster.

He turned from the mirror, suddenly not so eager to see the freak he had become, and wishing Sam would come back. He'd been gone for almost half an hour, and Dean was starting to worry. Little did he know he had every reason to be worried, but he was about to find out.

As Dean hobbled slowly back into the room he found himself caught off guard by the presence, once again, of his doctor. But this time she wasn't alone. "Dr. Smith. Back so soon?" he asked, her plain features all of a sudden more appealing as the image of his damaged face reappeared in his mind. _Would this be what he resorted to for the rest of his life?_ _Plain...or even less than plain?_

She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip as she contemplated what she would say to her patient. She began with the obvious. "Dean, this is Dr. Carlson. He treated your brother when you two boys were brought in, and he...um...he's got something he wants to talk to you about."

Easing himself back onto the bed, Dean perked up at the mention of Sam. "What do you know about my brother?" he demanded of the doctor, staring him down in case he decided to back down and not spill what he knew.

Dr. Carlson sighed, rubbing a nervous hand through his hair. "I really shouldn't be telling you this," he admitted. "I'm breaking just about every doctor-patient confidentiality rule in the book."

"Screw confidentiality," Dean snapped, proving that subtlety wasn't his strong suit. "He's my brother. If there's something wrong with him I need to know. He said he had a seizure. Why?"

The physician answered Dean's question with one of his own. "How long has your brother been taking prescription pain killers?"

Dean's mouth dropped. His eyes grew intense as he ingested the bomb shell that had just been dropped on him. "He's not– He shouldn't be– I mean, he was– but it was for his hip...and that's better now. It's healed, and–"

"So you didn't know about it? Any of it?" Dr. Carlson questioned and Dean didn't miss the hint of accusation behind his voice.

His head shook unwaveringly, firm in the assertion that he was clueless to the whole thing. "I mean I...I knew he was different. I knew things had changed. But you don't know my brother. He's good. He can hide things with the best of them. How long has he–"

"Long enough to become addicted to the drugs," Dr. Carlson answered. "Long enough to OD on them last night."

"So that's what happened? That's what the seizure was all about?" Dean's voice quavered, and he had to gulp down a major lump in his throat as he tried to stay strong through the rest of the conversation.

Dr. Carlson nodded apologetically, crossing his arms. "I'm so sorry. Your brother seems to be such a bright boy. It's so tough to watch people throw their lives away like this. I just wanted you to know this because your brother has refused treatment. I thought you might be able to change his mind."

"He refused?" Dean asked, confusion in his tone. "Can he do that? I mean, couldn't you guys just flush it from his system or something?"

Tightening his lips, the doctor looked at Dean with sorrowful eyes. "I wish it was that simple. But cleansing the system of the drugs is a long process. And it can get very ugly. The best place for him is a detox center. I have some pamph–"

"No," Dean interrupted stubbornly. "He's not going to rehab. My brother's not a junkie. He's just...confused. He can beat this on his own. I'll help him."

"It's not that easy, son," Dr. Carlson hesitated, and finally sat on the edge of the bed. His hand rested on Dean's shoulder, miraculously finding one of the few places that wasn't screaming in agony even as Dean's mind focused wholeheartedly on Sam. "Your brother needs professional help. He can't do this on his own. Not even with you by his side. Besides, you've got your own recovery to focus on."

"Fuck my own recovery," Dean snapped. "I'll be fine. I always am. Just tell me what I gotta do to get him better."

The doctor sighed, looking to his colleague for assistance. She complied, stepping towards Dean confidently. "We already explained to you what needs to be done. We're recommending that you petition to have Sam declared incompetent so you can gain power of attorney. With that power, you can have him admitted to a detox center regardless of his wishes.

Dean fumed, shrugging Dr. Carlson's hand from his shoulder and jumping to his feet. He would regret it later, but for now he felt no physical pain, only emotional. "ARE YOU PEOPLE FUCKING INSANE?" he cried, storming to the dresser where the clothes he'd been wearing when he was brought in had been washed and folded neatly. Snatching them roughly in his hand he began putting them on, ignoring the protests his body was making at every move. "There's no way in hell that I'm having Sam declared incompetent! So he ran into a little problem with drugs. We can deal with this. We've overcome a whole hell of a lot more." He glared at the doctors, trying to convince them of his confidence as much with his eyes as with his words. If only he felt as confident as he was trying to convince them he was.

Both doctors approached Dean cautiously, clearly wondering if they might have missed the signs that he, too, was dosing himself with painkillers. _Could any sane human be this enraged over the idea of getting a loved one help?_

"Mr. Bailey, please calm down." It was Dr. Smith who had voiced the plea, but Dean barely looked at her as he gathered the remainder of his things.

"I'd appreciate it if you could get those discharge papers for me now," he demanded through clenched teeth. "As soon as I find my brother, we'll be leaving. I'll take care of him myself."

The terse words served as a dismissal and both doctors grudgingly took Dean's less than subtle hint. Dean watched them leave, nostrils flaring and chest heaving as he tried unsuccessfully to calm himself down. His thoughts no longer focused on the actualization of what the doctors had just clued him in to. No, now he thought about Sam. About how long he'd been lying to him. About the fact that Sam's lies had nearly gotten them both killed last night. Dean's rage consumed him as he collapsed heavily into a chair. _I'm gonna kill that little shit!_


	4. Chapter 4

**I don not own Sam, Dean, or anything directly related to Supernatural, however, the story is all mine. **

_Hi guys! Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews. I'm so glad you're enjoying reading this as I am writing it. Please continue to review. Tell me what you think! Enjoy the next installment..._

Dean remained in the room alone, fuming, for another quarter hour before Sam slunk back in. He crossed to the bed and sat down, head bowed, eyes pointedly diverted from his brother's direction. The silence was deafening, but Dean used it to his advantage. Several minutes passed as he studied the boy. Saw him in a new light. Detected the same idiosyncracies in Sam that he'd noted for months, but this time applying the newly discovered explanation to them. _How did I miss this? How the hell could I have sat beside him in the car for hours at a time, slept just feet away, _fought_ side by side with him...and still failed to see how much pain he was in. If I'd just let him in. If I just talked to him. Maybe..._ But it was too late for maybe's. It was too late for what if's. The damage had been done. Sam was an addict.

Emotions alternated between anger, confusion, denial, and betrayal. He'd let Sam down. And in return, Sam had let him down. But Dean had to be strong. He had to hold it together; if not for himself, for Sam. To Dean, holding strong meant being firm. Demanding. Unrelenting. Detox was hard; Dean had understood that much from the doctor's explanation, and if Sam needed him to be the enemy in order to get him through this then that was exactly what he would become.

"Where'd you disappear to?" Dean questioned, his tone flat, unyielding.

Sam shrugged, his universal answer to everything. "Nowhere. I just needed air."

"You sure about that? You just went for air?"

It was the first time Sam looked up, and his eyes filled with anger as he finally looked at his brother. "Yes, Dean. I went for air. I felt like I was suffocating. Quit nagging, will you? You sound like an old woman."

Grasping the opportunity, Dean stared hard at his brother. He winced as he noted the accusatory tone in his own voice, but it couldn't be helped. "So you didn't sneak off somewhere to get yourself another fix." He didn't ask it, because it wasn't a question. He already knew the answer.

There was no mistaking the surprise in Sam's face. Somehow, he'd managed to convince himself that Dean would never find out, that he was impervious to his brother's acute sense of hunter's intuition. He'd been wrong. Sam quickly masked himself, drawing back from Dean and turning toward the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lied, but even as he said it he could sense the shakiness in his voice. It was one thing to avoid the truth; to tell little white lies that skirted the facts. But blatant, all out lies...Sam had never been that good. Not with Dean. He might be able to lie to himself, but never to Dean.

"Sam, you have to talk to me about this," Dean prodded, the intensity and anger in his voice only slightly lessened by concern.

"I don't want to talk. I just want this nightmare to be over." He spoke to the wall, believing the drab whiteness to be more inviting. More understanding.

Dean rose to his feet, painfully testing the weight bearing capabilities of the inured knee. He didn't need crutches slowing him down. "You're gonna have to talk to me at some point. Because that's the only way you stand a chance to work through this."

Silence was the only answer he received, and it pissed Dean off to no end. "Get your stuff," he snapped, struggling with his jacket. The attempt was unsuccessful, and he finally just tossed the offending leather over his arm as he limped to the door. "We're leaving."

Sam scrambled from the bed, collecting his own jacket before stumbling after his brother. "Dean! Wait!" Fear laced his pleas, terrified that he would be left behind if he didn't keep up. "Stop. Please. I'm sorry! Dean, _I'm sorry._"

The release papers were waiting for them at the desk, and Dean scribbled an illegible signature on all the appropriate lines before continuing down the hall. He never turned, relying on blind faith that Sam was still following him. Even stoned, Sam was nothing if not predictable, and as Dean hammered the button to the ground floor the younger boy stepped meekly into the elevator. "I'm _sorry, _Dean," Sam repeated, but he might as well have been talking to himself for all the good it did.

"Save it, Sam!" Dean snapped, pounding his fist into the metal wall hard enough to leave a dent. "I don't want to hear it! You're not really sorry... You're just sorry you got caught."

That silenced him. Sam shrunk back, unsuccessfully attempting to blend in with the wall, chewing his bottom lip to the point of breaking skin. His head hung low, studying his shoes, his hands, the floor, anything that wasn't Dean. He only knew when Dean stepped from the elevator because he watched the blur of jeans cross his line of vision, and he followed like a beaten puppy. He didn't want to go; suspected what would come next; but he couldn't stop himself.

Dean limped painfully through the parking lot, tormenting his screaming body by matching his usual quick strides. There was no time to be injured, so he would simply ignore it. But within a few feet of the car his body finally retaliated, knees buckling, and he reached in front of him for something to steady himself with. It was Sam who actually caught him, linking arms quickly under Dean's armpits and righting him again, holding him steady for a few seconds before Dean felt steady enough to take over. For a split second he felt safe, secure in his brother's strong grasp. But that feeling was fleeting, and he soon remembered why it was necessary in the first place. Anger flared in Dean again and he shook free of the touch. "Get off me," he growled, storming the remaining feet to the car and wrenching the door open.

"Maybe I should drive," Sam offered weakly, more out of habit than desire. "You're hurt."

He reeled back when Dean glared at him, wicked laughter emerging from the depths of his brother's throat. "You honestly think I'm gonna let you drive my car?" Dean taunted, sliding painfully into the driver's seat. "How many of those little pills did you actually take, Sam? Because if you really thought I'd let you come even _near_ the driver's seat you're more deluded than even _I_ thought."

Sam flinched, sliding into the passenger seat without another word. His body hugged the door, pressing tightly in an effort to be as far away from Dean as he could get. Shaking arms encircled his body in a feeble attempt to shield himself from his brother's wrath. He closed his eyes tightly, and then reopened them. But the desired effect didn't come. He was still in the car with his angry brother. They were still on the way to a motel where God only knew what would happen. He was still addicted to the Codeine. And Dean still knew. This definitely wasn't a dream, but it sure as hell was a nightmare.

The black Impala swerved dangerously fast into the parking lot of the first motel Dean spotted. Brakes squealed, sending both Sam and himself flying forward as he came to a stop in front of the office. Dean rose painfully from the car, eyes locking on Sam. "Stay in the car!" he ordered, before slamming the door.

Wincing, Sam watched Dean walk away. He knew he was mad. If nothing else had told him, the door slamming confirmed it. Because Dean _never_ slammed his car's door. _Ever. _To Dean, his precious car was more of an addiction than Codeine was to Sam. Dean wasn't just mad, he was furious. Sam's fight or flight instinct kicked in, and his hand went to the door handle, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white and the curved metal pressed a dent into his skin. _Maybe...if I could just run. He'll never catch me; he's hurt. _But logic won out, and Sam stayed put. The look of pure rage in Dean's eyes had determined that for him long before he realized it himself. Because Sam knew, injured or not, that Dean would hunt him down and drag him kicking and screaming back to the hotel. And the consequences he would face from running were far worse than what he was about to encounter by staying. If he thought Dean was furious now, he didn't even want to think about what running would do to his brother's anger.

Inside the office, the young female clerk looked up from her book, obviously bored to tears. She cocked her head curiously as Dean entered, studying his battered appearance.

"What's the other guy look like?" she asked through a mouthful of bubble gum, grinning at he own joke as she cracked the gum on her tongue.

Dean laughed dryly, and then sneered at her. He didn't have time for some teenage teeny-bopper cracking jokes. "I need a room," he announced flatly, trying to look casual as he rested his arms on the counter that was, in acctuality, serving to hold him up. "Preferably one on the end of a row if you've got it."

The girl studied her monitor for a few seconds and then turned back to Dean, still chomping on her wad of gum. "I got room 17, second complex over. You paying with cash or credit?"

"Cash," Dean replied, pulling out a wad of bills from his back pocket. "I'll pay for a week." He selected several bills and laid them on the counter. After folding the remaining bills, he made to put them back in his pocket and then paused. Pulling the bills back out, Dean selected several more and set them beside the first stack. "Give me the room next to that one, too." _Last thing I need is a bunch of nosey neighbors getting all up in our business. Doesn't concern them. _

Taking a deep breath, Dean took the keys she handed him and pushed off from the counter, swaying for a second before he managed to steady himself. He took his time walking back to the car, far from eager to confront what awaited him out there. Only a few hours ago things were normal, at least in his mind, and now he was preparing himself for the battle of his life. Demons didn't scare him. Ghosts were practically innocuous to his hunting talents. But this...this terrified him.

Sam sat rigid in the car, practically in the exact same position he had been when Dean left. But he shrank back as his brother reentered the car, and Dean didn't miss the motion. _He's scared of me. God, I hate that he's afraid of me. _But, Dean still knew that that was the only way he would succeed. He knew that opening himself up to the emotions that he was fighting so hard to repress would mean he wouldn't be able to continue. If he let even the smallest hint of compassion or concern slip through his stoic mask the fight would be over, and Sam would win.

The car roared to life again, tearing around corners in the small parking lot as though it were on an obstacle course, and then slamming to another stop in front of their room. "Get out," Dean ordered, climbing from the car and circling to the trunk.

Too afraid to fight Dean's orders, Sam climbed hesitantly from the car and followed his brother. He reached into the trunk, grabbing his bag, but Dean's tight grip on his wrist stopped him. "Leave it. Just go wait at the door." The words were flat, spoken through clenched teeth, and Sam could sense Dean fighting with himself to remain calm.

So many thoughts and explanations floated through Sam's mind. He wanted to tell Dean that it wasn't his fault. He didn't do it on purpose. He didn't mean to become so dependent on the precious pills; they just helped so much. They helped him in ways that he couldn't help himself. Helped him in ways Dean couldn't help. And by the time he realized there was a problem, he was so deeply in that he couldn't pull himself back out. _The only thing I did wrong was not tell you sooner!_ But those were words Dean wouldn't hear. His brother didn't want to hear them, and even if Sam tried to speak, he knew Dean wouldn't listen.

Dean carried the bags into the room, setting both of them on the first bed, but opening Sam's. "Where are they, Sam?" he demanded, digging through the bag. Clothes flew behind him, scattering haphazardly on the floor. Sam hung back, arms crossed against his chest as tears began to fall. "Sam! Tell me where they are!"

Fingers finally clenched around an old Vitamin C bottle, and Dean twisted the lid off, noting the collection of white pills in place of the expected orange ones. Tightening the lid, he tossed it on the bed beside the bag and plunged his hand back inside. "Are there more?" he screamed to a still mute Sam. But he didn't wait for an answer, instead recovering another bottle, this one for multivitamins. Inside, the same white pills had taken the place of what should have been gel capsules. He found three more bottles before he was satisfied, scooping up all five and bee-lining to the bathroom.

Sam finally found his voice as he realized what Dean intended to do with his salvation. "Dean, please! No, don't, please." His words came out in hiccoughed spurts, but the desperation was clear. Running after Dean, Sam grabbed his arm and tugged, pulling the older hunter off balance.

"Dammit, Sam, get off me," Dean spat, shaking his brother's trembling grip from his arm and balancing himself against the door frame. "This is for your own good. I'm doing this for you!"

Falling to his knees, Sam reached out again, this time grabbing Dean's shirt. Frantic sobs emitted from his heaving chest as he watched the first of the pills go into the toilet, swirling into oblivion as they were flushed down the drain. "Dean, please!" Sam screamed louder, tugging at Dean's shirt and hearing a ripping sound as his strength, fueled by desperation, separated the hem away from the rest of the cotton shirt.

Dean ignored it, the destruction of his clothing the least of his worries. He opened another bottle and dumped the contents into the porcelain pool, pressing the handle again, and watched the second supply of pills disappear. Sam's arms wrapped around his legs, bringing a new wave of pain to his injured knee, and Dean dropped, only just catching himself on the edge of the tub. Fiery eyes glared at his brother, shoving him mightily off screaming legs. As his grasp released itself from Dean, Sam fell to the floor, stunned.

But he was soon up again as he watched the third of the bottles empty into the toilet. Desperation went to the brink of peril, and Sam was soon scrabbling from the floor. Resigning himself to the fact that he would never pry the remaining bottles from his brother's hands, Sam went for the more obvious solution. He dove toward the filled bowl as Dean hit the flusher again, his hands plunging into the swirling water as he grabbed for the lifeline, clutching a few of the already dissolving pills in his hands before he was wrenched back from the toilet and thrown against the wall. "Sam! Dammit, get a hold of yourself!"

The Codeine demon had already possessed Sam's mind, though, and there was nothing for him to get control of. He was already lost. Sam pushed against Dean's hold, mind thoroughly set on retrieving the remaining pills, and Dean realized he had only one choice. As Sam continued to fight him, Dean let go, drawing his arm behind his head. "Please forgive me," he whispered as the fist let loose, connecting with a resounding thwack against the side of Sam's head, dropping the boy to the ground in an instant.


	5. Chapter 5

**Same old, same old. I don't own Sam or Dean (although I would gladly invite them into my possession if they so desired - hint hint - however, the story is a product of my own ingenious mind. Toot toot. **

_Hi guys, sorry it took me so long to update. I had my nieces this weekend, and they commandeered the computer so they could deal with their Sims families. Anyway, I hope the wait was well worth it. I don't know if this makes any difference to you guys or not, but I thought it would add to the story if I tell you that a lot of this stems from experience. My brother did drugs until the day he died - but not the prescription kind. He was in and out of rehab for years, so, although I never experienced the detox first hand, I do have some experience with the subject. You write what you know, right? (And btw, I didn't tell you that to illicit sympathy - he was 15 years older, so I barely knew him. He was just another situation my parents dealt with over the years) So I'm assuming the emotions, but the facts come from experience. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. And so it begins..._

It was more than an hour before Sam regained consciousness, and when he did he found himself laid prone on one of the two beds in the room. His eyes opened to just slits as he brought his hand up to rub at the aching temple where Dean's fist had connected. In the split second before Dean realized Sam was awake, Sam was able to study his brother. Dean sat sprawled on the other bed, his injured knee propped up by a pillow. The laptop was on and papers and pamphlets were strewn all over the bed, and Dean was studying them intently. Guilt and worry were etched noticeably in his eyes as he knitted his forehead into a frown. As Sam studied him, he realized he'd been wrong to fear his brother. He wasn't furious, he was scared; just like Sam was.

Dean looked up as he heard the rustling in the other bed, quickly plastering the firm and unforgiving glare on his face as he eyed Sam. The reaction was purely an act, formed to provide him with the strength he would need to get through this nightmare, but it served him well. It had killed him to be so stern, cruel might even be a better word, but it was the only way he could think of to get through to Sam. And it was the only way he could think of to get through to himself. If that's what was necessary to rid Sam of the drugs in his system then he wouldn't be giving up the fight anytime soon.

"How's your head?" Dean asked, emotionless as he angled himself to face Sam.

"You punched me," Sam answered, suddenly remembering why his head felt like he'd been attacked by a five hundred pound sledge hammer. He rubbed the spot, pointedly shooting accusing daggers in Dean's direction. "Why?"

Dean sighed, wincing as he removed his knee from on top of the stack of pillows and pulling it over the edge of the bed so he could sit fully. "You really don't know why?"

Gears turned visibly in Sam's head as he chewed on his bottom lip. Knees were drawn tightly against his chest, and he looked away from Dean, a clear indication of guilt. Sure, he knew exactly why Dean had hit him, and he knew it was necessary. But did he really want to go so far as to admit it? "I guess I kinda lost it there, for a minute, huh."

A slight nod of the head was all Dean afforded Sam before launching into a lecture. "You did more than just lose it, little brother. You were crazy. But those pills...you can't let them control you like that. You have to fight them. You have to fight their effects." He studied the younger boy, knowing the waning supply of drug in his system was already beginning to take its toll on Sam's body. He had no idea how much longer Sam would be lucid enough to take part in this conversation before he was fully consumed by withdrawal, but he knew he needed to get Sam to commit to detox before he lost the fight completely.

Dean's face was marred, the combination of scars caused by the broken glass and the black thread used to stitch them up railroading across his face and neck. He'd opted against bandages, pulling them from his skin the minute he'd escaped to the bathroom in the hospital. And Sam stared at the ugly slashes with disgust, not in the wounds themselves but in himself, because the wounds had been preventable. Because if he'd been sober when they had faced the Warlock there was a good chance that Dean never would have been caught in the levitation trap that had caused the injuries. Because if he hadn't stopped to take five more pills before running to Dean's aid none of this would have happened.

Sam studied his hands, the mild trembling not lost on him as he reached up to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. "I made a mistake, Dean. How long are you going to make me pay for it?" He suddenly froze, realizing he'd said the words out loud. Seconds before, they had just been thoughts, mental blames, actually, as his own mind terrorized himself with guilt. Dean's cuts, his injured knee, the fractured arm, not to mention the surgery Dean had undergone just a day before to stop the internal bleeding, they were all taunting reminders of Sam's failure. And to top it all off, Dean was still pushing aside his own pain to deal with Sam, to deal with his little brother's problems. The guilt welled up inside Sam until he finally burst, spouting the only words that had been running through his angst ridden conscious.

"Until those drugs are out of your system," came the matter of fact response, as though the question hadn't come from left field. "And then for the rest of your life if you ever _ever_ come close to doing anything like this again. I know you couldn't help becoming dependant on those god-forsaken pills, but I really wish you would have talked to me about it. You _should_ have talked to me about it."

"Dean, I tried. I wanted to tell you. But I just...couldn't. Every time I opened my mouth to say something, you always changed the subject or made some stupid joke. And I just didn't have the strength to stop you. I knew you would be so disappointed in me. I didn't want to see your reaction. I couldn't bear to see your face."

It felt like he had just been slapped in the face, and Dean's heart sank at the sting of Sam's admission. He'd tried to talk to him; Sam had made the effort, and Dean had brushed him off like yesterday's news. He rose painfully, crossing the short distance between their beds before collapsing on the edge beside Sam. He gulped, realizing as he sat that he was losing his edge to his own guilt. Dean tried to span the two, the guilt with the need to remain in control, and faced Sam, locking his eyes firmly with his brother's. "Tell you what - I'll admit I was an ass just as soon as you prove to me that you can beat this thing. It's gonna get worse before it gets better, and I need your word that you're going to fight with everything you have. And more than anything, I need your word that you're going to trust me to help you."

The hesitation seemed to last forever. Dean found himself holding his breath, waiting for Sam to give an answer, hoping that he would choose the right one. And he did. One side of Sam's mouth turned up, offering the slightest sign of apprehensive confirmation. "OK, Dean. I trust you. I'll fight this thing."

Relief filled Dean's features, and his tense shoulders became noticeably relaxed. "Thank you, Sammy...for trusting me. Now go get washed up. You look like crap." He playfully swatted at the boy, grateful for the small offering of lightheartedness he'd been given, knowing it wouldn't last long. The pamphlets he'd been given had outlined addiction in gory detail, and the withdrawal seemed almost worse. Even worse than the pamphlets were the personal accounts he'd read on the internet; hour by hour, day by day, he'd read every detail of detox and Dean was scared. This would be worse than any ghostly possession they'd encountered, because there was nothing he could do beyond just being there for Sam. There would be no exorcisms, no expelling the demon that was about to invade his already weakened body. Dean would have to sit back and watch, and just pray that he was strong enough to help his brother get through this.

The thump, followed by an anguished cry, had Dean tearing frantically into the bathroom. Sam was on the ground, doubled over in pain, as the water continued to run from the faucet. "Sam!" he screamed, falling at the younger boy's side, his hand going unconsciously to his own stomach and the stitched wound, but ignoring his protesting knee as it bent at an undesired angle. "Oh God, my stomach, it hurts!" Sam cried, rocking back and forth in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the pain that had started in a split second.

"How, Sammy, how does it hurt?" Dean asked anxiously, guiding the boy backward to lean against the tub.

"Cramps!" Sam sobbed, still hugging his stomach with shaking hands. "Make it stop, Dean. God, make it stop." Tears ran down his face and his body trembled as he collapsed against Dean. His breath came out in shallow pants as he tried to gain control of his pain wracked body, but none came, and instead, the cramps worsened. "It hurts, Dean."

"Shhh," Dean soothed, pulling his brother against him and stroking his hair. His head reeled, amazed at how quickly the attack had come on, and how powerful. Nothing in the pamphlets had prepared him for the instantaneous intensity that had invaded his little brother's body. One minute Sam had been fine, and now this. "Shh, Sammy, it's OK. I've got you. It's going to be OK."

Promises were forgotten as easily as they were made as Sam began to whimper into Dean's shoulder, fingers clawing desperately at the older mans already ripped shirt. "Please, Dean, I need something. Just one...please, I just need one."

"You know I can't do that, Sam," the tone was apologetic. Dean hated to see his little brother in pain, but there was nothing he could do. The best thing he could do for the boy was nothing. "You're just going to have to fight through this. Fight, Sam. Push through," his voice rose, firm and unrelenting. "You can do this, Sammy, I know you can."

The sobbing got louder, faster, and Sam's hands became more frantic as he pounded against Dean's chest. "I can't, Dean. I need something. Just _one. Please!_"

Dean winced as Sam's fist connected with fresh stitches, and his good hand reached out and clamped itself onto Sam's wrist, praying that he wouldn't need to contain the other one, too. "Breathe, Sam. Deep breaths. I have faith in you. You can get through this."

The degree to which Sam calmed was minuscule, but there was enough of a difference that Dean was able to rise from the floor and stumble to the sink. He filled one of the plastic cups with cold water and lowered himself back on the ground beside Sam, shoving the cup into the boy's hands.

Water sloshed over the sides of the cup as Sam's trembling hands gripped the plastic, indenting the sides. He brought it to his lips and gulped, coughing a little as he choked on the liquid.

"Drink some more," Dean coaxed, helping his brother tip the cup against his lips. "Sip it. Don't chug."

It helped a little, and Sam slumped against Dean, the worst of the cramping spell over. But it was far from gone. Sweat now poured down his face and body, soaking his t-shirt. He could feel his heart beating frantically against his chest wall, threatening to break free. His body was shaking to the point of resembling convulsions. And, though less noticeable, the cramping in his stomach had far from disappeared. Tears mixed with the sweat on Sam's face, and he buried his face in his own shirt, lifted unceremoniously from his heaving stomach. "I don't think I can do this," he bawled.

And soon, Dean's arms were wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him tight. "You can, and you will," Dean assured him, guiding him back to his feet and out of the room. Leaning on each other, they made their way to Sam's bed where Dean lowered the boy down and against the pillow.

"You're going to be absolutely fine," Dean assured him as he pulled the sweat soaked shirt from his bother's torso. "Now just stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

Sam nodded, watching his older brother disappear back into the bathroom. Dean returned soon after, clutching a wet washcloth in his good hand. He lowered himself to the bed, hovering over Sam's shivering body, pressing the cool water against his skin and wiping away the sweat. He flinched, inadvertently shying away from the ice cold feel of the compress. But Dean persisted, consumed with worry as he noted the feverish quality to Sam's body and the suddenly glazed eyes that seemed to be staring at nothing.

The timeline ran though Dean's mind as though it were a picture show, remembering how the recent events had unfolded. As he pressed the cool cloth to Sam's face he thought about their arrival into the town, less than twenty four hours before. The cloth dabbed at Sam's neck and Dean flashed to Sam's seizure, and his own attack from the Warlock. Touching Sam's chest dredged up the memory of waking in the hospital and finding out Sam's secret from the do-gooder doctors. God, how he hated those doctors now as he watched his brother writhing in agony from the tragic onset of withdrawal. A split second's desperation had him wishing they had just kept their mouth's shut and left him in the dark to Sam's problem. But he knew it was for the better; knew that no amount of looking the other way could have prevented what was presently happening. This was bound to happen sometime, because the only other alternative would have been Sam's death from his own carelessness.

The washcloth had become warm as Dean gently caressed Sam's moist body and he pried himself from the bed to rinse and re-cool the washcloth, excusing himself although Sam barely knew he was there any more. His injured arm went to his stomach, pressing tight against the surgical wound in an effort to ease the pain and he swayed a little, feeling lightheaded. He closed the door behind him, as he entered the bathroom and set the washcloth on the sink, saving that for last. He needed two minutes, just two, to devote to his own injuries, and as he lifted the torn shirt from his stomach Dean's fears were confirmed. The bandage that covered the wound was now soaked crimson with his blood.


	6. Chapter 6

**I do not own either Sam or Dean, but the story is all mine. **

_Hi guys! Once again, thanks so much for all your awesome reviews. You guys really make my day! Keep up the reviews and I'll keep up the writing. Seems like a fair deal, huh? Anyway, enjoy this next installment. _

Pulling the bandages away from the surgical wound, Dean gingerly fingered the edges. Several of the stitches had popped in Sam's latest episode and blood was now slowly seeping from the edges. It was not life threatening yet, but he definitely needed to get himself stitched up before he lost more blood.

By now, his knee was screaming at him, on the brink of collapse, and he more dragged it than limped as he left the bathroom and headed toward the door of their room. Checking on Sam as he passed, Dean determined that it would be safe just to run out to the car and grab the first-aid kit. Sam was far from OK, but for the time being he was quiet. He lay in the bed, curled up in a tight ball as he shivered violently. But the covers were kicked off, and sweat poured over his body in a perfect antithesis to the shivers.

"I'm just going to the car," Dean announced to the unresponsive form, realizing he was saying it more for himself than for Sam. "I'll be right back."

Easily finding the first aid kit in the glove box, Dean borrowed a few additional seconds to just sit and compose himself. Looking at his own shaking hands, he forced himself to take several deep breaths. Lack of food and blood loss, combined with moving in hyperspeed ever since waking up had him drained. He was exhausted.

Sam's screams pulled Dean from his moment of calm, and he quickly dragged himself from the car and tore into the room, first aid kit forgotten. He seemed to have gotten worse in the few minutes Dean had been gone. Sam was now literally drenched, head to toe, in sticky sweat. He writhed in agony, pushing against the cramps that plagued him and alternating that with tearing his nails across the now raw skin, fighting to give way to the invisible creatures crawling in and around the tissue. A runny nose, ignored for the more intense symptoms, left behind a disgusting trail of yellow mucus down the top lip. Glassy eyes stared at nothing, their only emotion pure, unadulterated anguish. And his words were barely distinguishable through the momentous sobs that wracked his spasming body.

"Dean!" he screamed. "Deeeeeeean! Please, I need them. You've gotta help me. Make it stop. Pleeease!" He cried, in among the wordless screams that seemed to have no distinguishable end.

Dean crossed the room to Sam's bed in three long strides, ignoring the fact that his leg felt like it would collapse on him any second now. He grabbed the boy's arms, pulling his trembling body against his own and wrapping strong arms tightly over Sam's weakened body. Tears threatened to fall from Dean's eyes, and it was sheer will that kept them at bay.

And then Sam pulled back, eyes becoming clear for a split second as he shut his mouth tightly. "I'm gonna be sick!" he cried, clamping a hand over his mouth and tearing into the bathroom. Before Dean could react, he heard the sounds of Sam emptying the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl that had claimed the pills just hours before.

He rushed to Sam, holding the long hair back with his braced hand and rubbing gentle circles on Sam's back with the other one. "Shhh," he soothed quietly. "It's OK. You're gonna be fine." The words did nothing for the younger Winchester, but Dean didn't know what else to say. He didn't know how else to help the boy. So he continued spouting words of comfort, calming himself if nothing else.

A sharp pain in his stomach reminded Dean of the task he'd abandoned to be at Sam's side, and he looked down. He'd never even replaced the bandage earlier, and his shirt was now stained red where the wound had continued to ooze. Silently, without Sam's notice, Dean reached around him and grabbed a handful of tissues. His stomach inadvertently shied away at the pressure Dean applied beneath his shirt, but he pressed harder, hoping to staunch the flow of blood without the need for stitches. There was no time for that.

Sam's stomach had emptied itself within the first few minutes, and he was now dry heaving, worsening the cramps. But he couldn't stop; the gag reflex wouldn't ease up even as he tried desperately to suck in the deep breaths Dean coaxed him take. He barely even heard the words coming from his brother's lips, his mind focusing on only one thing; accessing more drugs. They were his only salvation, the only way he could escape this nightmare that Dean was forcing him to remain in.

"Pleeeeease, Dean," he squealed, his tone teetering on the verge of femininity. Desperation was dangerously high in his words, his mind, his actions. The heaving finally let up, and he collapsed against Dean's chest, arms snaking around his brother's shoulders and neck. "I neeeeed my pills," he insisted, hints of the old puppy dog gaze pleading with Dean. "Just one. Just give me one. I'll be fine after that. I promise. Dean, please." Tears rolled uncontrollably down Sam's face as he bawled like a child who had lost his favorite toy.

But Dean held strong, shaking his head against Sam's pleas, refusing to make eye contact. He didn't want to see what Sam's eyes held. Didn't want to see the way the lack of drugs haunted the boy, filled him with anguish, pain, fear. "I'm not going to do that, Sam. You know I can't." It killed him to say it, because he was denying his brother the one thing that could make all this pain disappear. But he knew it would only be a temporary fix. Allowing Sam the escape he so desperately longed for would only contribute to his world spiraling out of control. This might be worse short term, but Dean knew it was the only way to make Sam better. _I have to be strong!_

Anguish turned to rage when Sam realized Dean wasn't about to answer his seemingly simple request and he brought the fists out, once again slamming them against Dean's chest. "I hate you!" Sam shrieked, tears raining down his tormented face. "I HATE YOU!"

Dean allowed it, silently internalizing the spiteful words spewing from Sam's mouth. He didn't even try to stop the pounding fists that brutalized his already destroyed body. Because he deserved it. Because it wasn't Sam who had allowed this addiction get the better of him, it was Dean. That was the power of addiction, right? That the person taking the drugs didn't realize there was a problem. Sam hadn't realized there was a problem. But Dean had. Dean had known something wasn't right. But instead of doing something about it, he had ignored the problems, telling himself that he preferred the new Sam to the old one. Telling himself that things were actually better. He'd pretended he didn't notice the differences in Sam that never would have happened without the use of drugs. He'd failed his brother. All of this was his fault, and for that, he deserved to be punished.

Pain laced Dean's slashed face as Sam's fists connected with the injured ribs and already bleeding wound on his belly, but he did nothing to stop the attack, and Sam was too far gone to realize what he was doing to his brother. The saving grace was not Sam's recognition of his actions, but rather his pure exhaustion from fighting against the withdrawal symptoms. Sam collapsed against Dean, the pounding action lessening and his whimpering quieting until all that was left was a blubbering shell of a person bawling into Dean's battered chest. Looking down at his fallen brother, Dean didn't even notice the tear that fell from his own eye onto Sam's shoulder.

And once again, Dean ran soothing fingers through his brother's mop of tangled, sweat-laden hair, whispering words of comfort, reassuring the boy that everything would be alright. Mustering up the last but of strength he had, Dean pulled Sam's limp body from the floor and guided him back to the room. Sam collapsed on the bed, sprawling in an awkward position across the already muddled bedspread. His eyes stayed wide open, sleep refusing to claim him, but they were glazed and unresponsive to Dean's actions as the older brother rearranged his splayed limbs into a more comfortable pose.

When Dean was satisfied that Sam was calm once more he retreated to his own bed, hand pressed firmly against his oozing wound. The nagging in his mind insisted that he try once again to retrieve the first aid kit from the car, but the weakness in his body won out, knowing he would never actually make it to the car before fatigue consumed him. Like Sam, Dean collapsed on the bed, renewing pain in his injured ribs. He froze, the only solution to alleviating his screaming body, and lay that way for several minutes as he listened to the weakened sobs from the other bed.

The fight was gone in him. He could no longer keep his heavy eyelids pried open, and Dean finally accepted defeat, groggily assuring himself that he would only close his eyes for a few minutes, before fully succumbing to the deep slumber.

A few minutes quickly became three hours and Dean's eyes shot open in a panic as he quickly sat up in bed before remembering his injuries. Bending over in agony, Dean clutched his chest and his eyes fell upon the drenched shirt he wore. His blood had continued to flow as he slept, and was now staining the entire front of the ACDC t-shirt, ruining it. Looking down on the bed, he could see a slight line of blood outlining where his body had laid. _Shit. This is not good,_ he thought to himself, prying the shirt from his torso and pulling it gingerly over his head. Mercilessly, the wound had ceased its flow at some point, finally clotting over. He could only hope that the blood loss looked worse than it really was as he rooted through his duffle bag for a new t-shirt.

It was only as he pulled the new shirt over his head that Dean realized something was wrong in the room. He hadn't woken up on his own volition; no, he'd woken up to the sound of a door slamming shut. He looked over to Sam's bed, and his heart rose in his throat. Sam was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**I don't own Dean, Sam, or Supernatural. But the story is all mine. **

_Hi hi! Once again, I'm absolutely thrilled by your responses. You guys make my day! Thanks so much! My only question is whether I'm just so transparent that you guys knew exactly where I was going with this chapter, or if it was just wishful thinking on your parts that happened to coincide with my thoughts. Won't say exactly what, but you'll know who you are when you read the story. Anywhoo, I hope you all had a great holiday, and I hope you enjoy this next installment. As usual, keep reading and responding. _

_Dammit Sam_! Spinning on his heel as fast as his battered body would allow, Dean scanned the room for any sign of where Sam had gone. The bathroom was empty, and Sam hadn't left any kind of a note, not that Dean really expected one. There was only one possible door Sam could have slammed, and as Dean stumbled towards it he prayed that Sam didn't have much of a head start.

He was weak; the blood loss taking a major toll on his injured body, and Dean had to stop when he reached the door frame. He leaned heavily against the sturdy wood, rekindling his sapped strength and taking several deep gulps of air before he could latch onto the knob and turn. Pulling the door open, Dean prepared himself to take off after Sam as soon as he knew which way to go, but stopped in his tracks when he saw his car.

The passenger side door was wide open and Sam sat in the respective seat looking absolutely tormented. Dean lurched forward, using the hood of the car to keep himself upright. He could finally see the present source of Sam's suffering and fear engulfed him, a lump forming in his throat. Sam held an object in each hand, his eyes spastically darting back and forth. There was a decision to be made.

xxxxxxx

After Dean had guided Sam back to the bed, Sam laid there for what seemed like an eternity. His mind raced, flashing all sorts of freakish images in the subconscious' version of a movie reel. Images of the demons and other haunts they had hunted taunted him, blinking in and out as though backlit by strobe lights. Flashes of Jess in flames on the ceiling above him, and thoughts of times he'd seen Dean injured jumped out at him as though he was reliving them in

3-D. He'd whimpered, cried, screamed, and spent more time in the bathroom, hovering over the toilet as he dry heaved.. And in his delirium he never noticed that he was suddenly doing it alone. Dean had passed out, dead to the world, but Sam hadn't noticed that fact either. He missed the increasing stain of blood that seemed to encase his brother's body as it spread across the cotton t-shirt. But then, as suddenly as the withdrawal symptoms had come on, they subsided, granting him clarity.

He wasn't out of the woods yet. His hands still shook with the power of a jackhammer. His head still pounded, a million tiny soldiers attempting to hatchet their way through the walls of his skull. His stomach ached, although now more from the violent heaving it had endured trying to conjure up remnants of meals Sam had eaten as long as a year ago. But the sweating had finally lessened, and the horrifying images he'd been broadcasting in his mind were now distant memories. And suddenly, his problems seemed to not matter at all when his eyes finally landed on Dean's passed out form struggling for breath.

Sam had run to Dean, finally comprehending exactly what Dean had been fighting in himself through the hours he'd been with Sam. As his hands prodded at the wound, Sam vaguely remembered Dean's pain filled expressions and hidden motions during the horrific ordeal, and he now knew why. Clarity offered him one piece of knowledge, the fact that he had to get Dean help, and he had to get it now.

After scanning the room and finding no sign of the first aid kit, Sam darted from the hotel room towards the Impala. He was surprised to find the doors unlocked, and even more surprised to find the desired kit already opened on the passenger seat. _Damn, Dean, if you knew you needed this thing so bad, why didn't you just take care of yourself. I'm not that important that you had to risk your own freaking life! _Sam had reached desperately for the box, his hand clutching tightly onto Dean's salvation. But he allowed his eyes to wander before he could return to Dean, and they had landed on his backpack, stuffed halfway under the seat. At first, he'd ignored its presence, ready to turn his back on it for the sake of his dying brother. But the nagging little devil on his shoulder taunted him, dared him, reminded him. Because Dean hadn't found all the pills when he'd gone through Sam's stuff. He'd missed the Tylenol bottle that Sam carried in the pack, and it was now mere inches from his outstretched hand. And God, how he wanted to alleviate all the pain still coursing through his body. He sunk onto the seat, reaching in the backpack and pulling out the precious bottle, fingering the cap. His subconscious prodded him. _Come on, Sam. Just take them. Dean will never know. And you can help him better if they're in your system. You'll be able to think more clearly._

Sam shook his head, trying to vanquish the thoughts from his head. He stared at the two objects in his hands, alternating back and forth between the first aid kit and the pill bottle, fighting an internal battle over which to choose. And that's when Dean appeared.

His brother clung desperately to the side of the car, haunted eyes pleading with Sam to make the right choice. _But what is the right choice?_

"Sam!" Dean's weak voice cut through his mental torment and Sam slowly looked up as Dean lost his grip on the car and collapsed painfully on the ground, Sam's decision made for him.

The pill bottle was tossed on the floor as Sam sprang from the vehicle and landed at Dean's side. His brother was panting, his hand plastered against his stomach as he tried to stop the blood flow which had started up again the minute he'd gone after Sam. Pulling Dean's arm around his shoulders, Sam dragged him back to his feet and together the brother's stumbled back into the hotel room. Sam barely got Dean to the bed before the older Winchester crumbled onto it in a graceless heap, the pain gone and replaced by an allover numbness. Losing much more blood would surely lead to shock, possibly even death.

"Come on, Dean, stay with me," Sam encouraged, patting his brother's face to keep him awake.

Unfocused eyes looked in Sam's direction as a slight smile crossed Dean's lips, and if Sam wasn't mistaken, he could detect pride emoting from within. The next words out of Dean's mouth confirmed it. "Keep up the fight, Sammy. I knew you could beat it." And then his eyes fluttered shut as he lost consciousness again.

Dean's breathing was raspy, fragmented, and Sam kept a panicked ear on it as he fumbled in the first aid kit for the tools he would need to stitch Dean up. He pulled scissors from the kit, using them to slice through the blood soaked fabric, and praying the shirt's destruction wouldn't result in Dean killing him after everything he'd gone through to fight for his life. That would be far too ironic.

Dazed eyes took a precious moment to fully consume Dean's appearance, and Sam couldn't suppress the gasp as he recognized his part in the wounds. The bruises, the fractured bones, sprained tendons, the internal bleeding, all of it could have been prevented if he had just been stronger when he'd first started taking the Codeine. If he could have just stopped himself in the beginning...

But there wasn't time to dwell on that, and Sam recognized that even through his haze of self pity and guilt. His hands shook, now a combined result of withdrawal and anxiety, and he nearly dropped the stack of gauze as he pulled it from the kit and pressed it firmly to Deans' wound. Holding that with one hand, he reached back into the kit with the other and pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, twisting the cap off with his mouth. He lifted the gauze just long enough to dump half the contents of the bottle on his brother's stomach, flinching with sympathy pain though his brother barely moved. The blood thinned out as it mixed with the sterilizer, but still stained the comforter. Sam immediately pressed the gauze back on Dean's wound, hoping to keep the blood clear until he could prepare the needle and thread.

On a lucid day, Sam would have found it difficult to thread the needle with one hand. He'd always been amazed at the way Dean could slide the thread so easily through the eye of the needle as it protruded from clenched teeth, but Sam had never mastered the task. And now he could barely focus his eyes, nor could he make his hand stop quavering long enough to match the two up. Realizing he had to let go of the gauze, Sam grabbed Dean's limp hand and laid it in place of his own, hoping that some pressure was better than none at all. It took all his focus and all his control to pass the thread through the eye, but Sam finally accomplished the feat and turned to Dean, ready to face his next challenge.

Sam stitched the wound as best he could against the circumstances, allowing a stream of expletives to spew from his mouth like a drunken sailor. He could barely see Dean's skin through the slimy pool of blood that refused to be wiped away, and what little he could see was difficult to connect with through his shaky hands and fuzzy vision. But somehow Sam managed to finish, and the skin joined together, and the bleeding stopped.

For the next half hour Sam occupied himself with cleaning up the mess in the room. He pulled the stained comforter from underneath Dean's unconscious body and threw it in a corner to be washed before the maid found it. He tossed the bloody gauze pads and tissues in the waste basket, discreetly covering Dean's destroyed shirt with them. He remade his own bed, starting from scratch because he'd made that much of a mess of it. And in the bathroom he cleaned the mess he'd made in his hazy stupor, wiping down tiles and righting fallen objects. The floor of their room was still covered with Sam's clothes, tossed there by Dean in his rage to find the Codeine Sam had hidden in his duffle bag, and Sam now stooped to pick those up, focusing his attention on meticulously folding each and every one and stacking them neatly back into his bag.

But soon, there was nothing left to occupy himself, and he could only check to ensure Dean was still breathing so many times before even he had to admit it was an indication of insanity. Sam nervously paced the floor. Now that the initial emergency was over, his mind had immediately refocused itself back on the little bottle of Codeine out in the car, waiting impatiently for him to retrieve it. The pills called to him, taking the form of wispy childlike voices as they invaded his head and began singing to him, repeating his name. _Sam. Saaaaam. We're heeeere! Come get us, Sam._

Tormented fists clenched handfuls of hair as Sam fought against the voices in his head. He knew he had to be strong; knew he would soon get past the desperation for the medication if he could just work through the urge. It had been Dean's request just before he lost consciousness. And he'd seemed so proud of Sam. He knew Sam had fought the hardest demon they would ever face, and so far had triumphed. But Sam also recognized that the fight was far from over. The demon was gradually losing its hold on him, but it was still strong enough to invade his mind and tempt his body. And the only thing Sam had to cling to were Dean's words. There was no physical Dean to keep him from going after his salvation. It was hard. So hard.

Sam finally gave up the fight, and he quickly crossed the room to the door, clutching the handle so tightly his knuckles turned white. The devil was back on his shoulder, coaxing him to fulfil his desire. But the other shoulder finally conjured Sam's angel, and unlike most people's angels this one wasn't in Sam's likeness. This angel was in Dean's likeness, wearing white jeans, and a white leather jacket. Sam almost laughed, realizing how Dean would have hated the outfit, _really_ would have hated that his favorite jacket had been bleached to albino. But instead of laughing, he listened. The Dean angel pleaded with him to return to the bed. To fight through the desperation and lay down and try and sleep it off. And maybe in the morning things would be easier. And by the end of that day, he might be able to go ten minutes without contemplating his next fix. Dean angel encouraged Sam to believe that, maybe in a month or two, he might not even think about Codeine at all.

And Sam complied, allowing the white hallucination to win out over the red one. He returned to his bed, pulling back the covers and sliding in. He vowed to not climb back out until morning - no matter what his body told him. Even alone, he would fight this. Because Dean deserved it.

_Don't worry guys. I'm not done yet. Close, but not yet. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Don't own the boys, don't own the show, do own the story.**

_Hi guys, thanks again for all the awesome reviews. Sorry it took me so long to post this. The last week has been so insane. Hope this suffices. _

As foggy as his mind was when he awoke the next morning, Sam might as well have just stayed asleep. Opening his eyes, the room began to spin and fade in and out, and he finally just closed them again as a temporary fix. His head pounded terribly, and he wanted nothing more than to take a couple dozen of the precious pain killers if, for no other reason, than to lesson the insistent agony of the thousand machete's embedding themselves into his skull. And memories of what had happened the previous night were shaky at best. It took him a full quarter hour before he felt well enough to rise from the bed, and only then because he had finally remembered his brother.

"Oh God, Dean!" Sam shot from the bed, his mind quickly clearing up. Finding the older man awake, Sam sank beside him, calming immediately.

The sharp pain in his side had woken Dean early in the morning, and for the next several hours he'd made himself lay perfectly still, gritting his teeth as he tried desperately to ease the vicious stabbing feeling. That's how Sam found him when he finally decided to join the land of the conscious.

"Dean, how are you feeling?" Sam asked, his anxiety for his brother's well being written cleanly across his face.

Dean groaned, painfully propping himself up on his elbows. "I'm fine," he assured Sam, trying not to wince as he said it. "How are you?"

Sam shrugged, averting his eyes from his brother as had become habit. "Embarrassed," Sam admitted, some of the things he'd said and done that night returning to his memory. "Dean, about last night...I'm sor–"

Vigorously shaking his head and holding his hand up firmly, Dean managed to put a stop to Sam's apology. "I think we both have stuff we shouldn't have said or done last night. For the last several months for that matter. Why don't we just call it even and move on?"

More than anything, Sam wanted to protest. He'd gone so long without talking to Dean, without telling him some of the most important things in his life. Wasn't that what had gotten them to this point in the first place? And yet now, when he was finally ready to spill his guts, bare his soul, Dean was putting up the wall again. To him, sharing that past night was enough to explain everything. He didn't want more. He didn't need more. But Sam did.

"I think we should talk about this, Dean," Sam replied hesitantly.

Watching Dean shift uncomfortably on the bed, Sam winced, guilt once again rising inside as he reminded himself that he was the cause of all that pain. But Dean was having none of the guilt or the self-deprecation that Sam was subjecting himself to. "Look, Sam; you want to talk– fine, we'll talk. But not now. And not here. You're not thinking clearly right now, and I'm sure as hell not in the mood to get into a deep, heartfelt discussion."

"Dean, please," Sam begged, trying to force himself to look at his brother, despite the shame he felt. "I need to apologi–"

"Sam, did you stitch me up last night?" Dean interrupted again, studying the handiwork on his blood stained abdomen.

Sam hesitated, caught off guard by Dean's abrupt change in subject. His own eyes, now dramatically clearer than they had been the night before, now eyed the same stitches Dean was looking at and nodded sheepishly at the horrendous job he'd done. Every stitch was a different size than the last, a different spacing. There was no visible continuity. "I guess I've done better," he admitted apologetically.

But instead of being upset, Sam was shocked to see a smile on his brother's otherwise marred face. The pride came out again in Dean's voice, and Sam felt himself relax just a little bit more. "I remember everything that happened last night, at least until I passed out on the bed," Dean told Sam point blank. "I know you chose me over those blasted pills. And I know that had to be really hard for you." Dean choked on his words, swallowing his own pride as spat out the words he needed to say. "You did good, little brother."

Sam practically lost it at that, almost laughing as he searched the room for the rigged cameras. Dean didn't hand out compliments lightly. Hell, Sam couldn't actually remember a time when his brother had complimented him in a lucid moment. Sure, there were times of half-consciousness when Dean couldn't maintain that protective wall he worked so hard to keep around himself. Last night had been one of those times. But to be fully alert, to have complete knowledge of his faculties, and still throw out such an admission of pride was akin to insanity when it came to Dean.

So instead of taking the words at face value and then moving on, as Dean had hoped Sam would do, the younger man actually stretched a nervous hand out to his brother's forehead and felt for fever. His mouth hung open, and Dean didn't know whether to snap at the boy or make fun of him. So he did both.

Dean swatted angrily at the hand Sam held to his forehead. "Dammit Sam, I'm fine. And close your mouth, I think three flies just flew in there."

"But you...you've never told me that you–"

"And I never will again," Dean assured his brother firmly. "Not if you're going to make a national issue about it every time I dare to say something to you."

"That's just it, though," Sam insisted on continuing. "I don't deserve your pride. I've done nothing but screw up my life. And yours." He looked back down at his feet, studying them intently.

Dean sighed in exasperation, realizing that they were going to have this conversation whether he liked it or not. "Sam you made a mistake," he assured his brother, wincing again as he attempted to pull himself higher in his sit; trying to make himself appear taller. "But we're working through it. And that's it. End of story."

"God, Dean, look at you!" Sam exclaimed, rising from the bed and beginning to pace. "Look at your face! Your arm; your leg. Shit, Dean, you just about bled to death last night because you were more worried about taking care of me than yourself!"

Pushing against the headboard, Dean attempted to rise from the bed in order to be at eye level with Sam, but he immediately collapsed back again. The pain was too much, and the effort just wasn't in him. It didn't help his argument. "Dammit, Sam!" He spat, hissing through his teeth at the pain resonating through his body. "When have you _ever_ know me to put myself before you?"

"Well maybe you should start!" Sam argued. "Because I'm not worth your trouble. I don't deserve it."

Dean shook his head sadly. "Sam, I can't talk to you when you're like this."

"I'm serious!" Sam insisted, continuing to wear a track into the carpet as he paced the floor. Their conversation was taking its toll on his emotions, and he quickly found himself thinking about the emotional release still waiting for him out in the car. As he continued to beat himself up over Dean's injuries, the Codeine began calling to him again. "Everything that happened with that Warlock. You getting hurt. That was all because of me!"

Dean laughed sourly, again trying to climb from the bed and this time succeeding, although still using the headboard to keep himself upright. "You sure do have a major God complex, don't you Sam. So you're telling me that you somehow managed to conjure up that Warlock? And that you somehow made him draw up that force field that threw me all over the room? Because I didn't realize you had those powers."

"You know what I mean!" Shaking hands cupped Sam's head as he finally sank to the opposite bed, elbows propped on his knees. "I was more concerned with getting the pain killers into my system than helping you. If I'd just gotten into the room sooner, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

"Yeah, well, what's done is done," Dean spat back, annoyed at the need to comfort Sam. He didn't have the energy, and his own guilt was still largely consuming his mind. "Besides, if I had noticed something going on with you sooner, you wouldn't have been so preoccupied with the pills in the first place. This reliance on medication lasted far too long. I should have put a stop to it months ago."

It was Sam's turn to become aggravated, and he eyed Dean with incredulity. "How can you even _think_ this was your fault? You had absolutely no idea anything was going on."

"And if you believe that, your delusional," Dean argued. "I knew more than either one of us would actually think. It was just this nagging little feeling that's been following me around for the last several months, but I just kept ignoring it. What scares me the most, Sam, is that I ignored it because I liked things better the way they were." Dean sank back to the bed, the exertion of standing too much for him. He smeared his hands down his face, using the act of exasperation as an excuse to discreetly wipe away the moisture plaguing his eyes.

"Come on, Dean," Sam rationalized. "You couldn't have known. Even if you did realize something was different, there's no way you would have been able to figure out what. I didn't want you to know...and that was enough to keep you in the dark."

"Yeah, well, I found out, didn't I," Dean snapped, angrily glaring at his kid brother for the matter-of-fact revelation that Sam had just thrown in his face.

Sam was quick to respond. "Only because of those damn nosy doctors."

Dean glowered. "Those damn nosy doctors may very well have saved your life," he rebutted.

Sighing, Sam shrank back further on the bed, the fight lost in him. He didn't know where it had come from in the first place. He didn't want to argue with Dean. He didn't want to argue period. The drugs had made him testy, but withdrawal made it worse, and that was the only thing he could come up with as an explanation to why this had gone so far. "You're right," he answered in hushed tones, fingering the bedspread in his clammy fingers. "And I'm glad they said something to you. I don't think I could live with myself if you ever got killed because of me. It was bad enough seeing you hurt."

Opening his mouth, Dean was about to protest again, and reassure his brother that he was _not_ the cause of his injuries. But then he thought better of it. _If that's what it will take to keep Sammy from going back to those drugs then he can keep a little guilt on his conscience. It can only help._ Instead, Dean pried himself off the bed again and held out an unsteady hand to his brother. "Come on, Sam. I think there's something you need to do for yourself."

Sam looked up at Dean's outstretched hand, and grasped it tightly, wiping his own set of tears from his face. He knew what Dean meant, and he nodded with conviction. Sam stood, casually sliding his shoulders underneath his brother's arms. The older man would stubbornly deny it, but he was still weak, and there was no way he would make it to the car and back without help.

The Tylenol bottle lay innocently on the floor of the Impala, waiting to be retrieved by its rightful owner. Sam grabbed the bottle hesitantly, his fingers gripping it loosely, uncertainly. He stood back up and faced Dean, tightening his lips into a nervous smile. And Dean nodded, a hint of a smile, a hint of pride. His brother's reassurance was all Sam needed to know things would be OK.

Sliding back under Dean's arm, Sam assisted the man back into the room and to the bathroom. He hovered over the gaping hole of the toilet, hands still shaking slightly. Another assured nod from Dean had Sam opening the top of the bottle, and he slowly tipped it as he sucked in a deep breath of air.

Dean patted his brother on the shoulder as the last of the Codeine disappeared into the toilet, squeezing tighter as Sam leaned over and pressed the handle, the last of the ritual complete. No words were needed as the brothers reflected on what had transpired. The physical scars would fade, and eventually disappear all together. But the emotional scars would remain for life; a permanent reminder of the power a tiny little object could have on the lives of two young men. For the rest of his life, Sam would have to identify himself as an addict, using caution when medicating himself for his injuries. And Dean would forever question any unusual behavior he noted in Sam. But the experience also brought them closer together, allowing a sharing of emotions that would never have occurred otherwise. As though saying goodbye to an old friend, the two watched the white capsules swirl in the water and disappear down the drain as they said a silent goodbye to that painful chapter of their lives.

The End

_Hey guys, I hope this ending is satisfactory. I'm always one of these people who will write things to death instead of finishing them, so when this sort of wound itself into an end I ran with it. Hope you agree that it works and I hope you enjoyed the full story. Thanks so much for reading! Keep on the lookout for future stories. I've already got one in my head that I've been working on for a couple weeks, so I'll put in on the comp very soon. See you soon!_


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